


A Fly In A Web

by etherscout



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Age Difference, Anxious!Reader, F/M, Mentallyill!reader, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, depressed!reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22164742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherscout/pseuds/etherscout
Summary: You arrived in Gravity Falls in the middle of the night - broke, tired, and looking for a new start. You get a job at Greasy's Diner, where you begin to feel at home in the quaint town. But it isn't long before you learn that things in this town are exactly as strange as they seem, and nobody but the Pines family seems to have any clue what's going on.
Relationships: Stan Pines/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 71





	1. Prologue

The Twin Bed Motel was something of a time capsule. The verdant shag carpet was offset by the faux cherry wood paneled walls, with the combination making you feel like you were stranded in the middle of a pool table. The bulky TV had about three stations _if_ you could get the antenna angled right, and the faded peeling wallpaper rolled the clock back even further.

You vowed to spend as little time possible taking in your surroundings, but it was six in the morning and you still couldn't sleep. While your eyes were picking out constellations in the popcorn ceiling above you, your brain was distracted by the growing void in your bank account. You knew that your cross country “I'm Going To Escape Everything” plan would leave your funds running dry, but you said you'd cross that bridge when you got to it.

And there you were, at the bridge, with no backup plan.

Did it feel better than being back home? _Absolutely_.

But that didn't change the way the reality of the situation was beginning to take hold. And you, like anyone alone in an unfamiliar little town, had a right to be nervous. That's what you kept repeating to yourself, circling the thought around your brain as if you _needed_ to justify your fears.

_Wallowing' isn't gonna do anything._

_Yeah, but what else is there to do?_

_Maybe get out of your own head for a change._

_You know you think too much._

_Not enough, clearly._

You pinched your eyelids shut as you massaged the bridge of your nose. Your brain never did _anything_ to help you in times like this. At least, it didn't feel that way. Sometimes it felt a little bit like your thoughts were just an annoying roommate – saying rude shit, not paying rent, and just generally making things worse.

_What would make this better?_

You threw that question out there, hoping your anxiety would take the bait. And after sitting on it for a moment, your stomach replied, “breakfast”.

_Yeah, go spend more money. That's gonna help you._

Ignoring the thoughts, you pushed your weary self upright. The rising sun was peering through the slats in the yellowed blinds. Your eyes burned, your brain was hazy, and your body begged for sleep. But until your brain was ready to take a nap, you were out of luck.

Perhaps breakfast would do.

* * *

“Greasy's Diner.”

The name left a lot to be desired but the reviews online claimed the food was “satisfactory” and “edible”. A few people even said they loved the place, which had to mean something. And standing outside of the restaurant, you had to admit you were intrigued.

The building itself took the form of a massive redwood log, sitting atop an aged flatcar. The sign above proudly proclaimed “we have food”.

Stifling a yawn, you gave in to your curiosity, and made your way up the stairs and into the diner. 

It was empty (expected, for seven in the morning) save for one employee. An older woman, silver hair piled a mile high, a lazy eye showing off a heavy coat of light blue shadow, and a shapeless pink dress. Her face lit up when she saw you, donning the sort of bright smile that could make you feel like you were being welcomed home. This must be “Lazy Susan” - or at least, that’s what a few reviewers said. Because when the food wasn’t the highlight of the review, this woman’s service was. 

“Oh! A new face!” She quickly scurried out from behind the counter, menu in hand. You wanted to be surprised that she picked out your newcomer status so quick, but in a town so small it must have been easy. And if you looked as much like a fish out of water as you felt, it must have been even easier. 

“Folks call me Lazy Susan!” She beamed. “I’m the owner, and your server today. So if you have any questions, you just let me know.” She slipped the menu into your hand. The plastic sleeves housing the pages were battered, with some areas pulling apart with bent corners and torn edges. But the smell emanating from the kitchen was a reminder that looks aren’t everything. 

“Thanks.” You replied, forcing a grin onto your weary face. “Anything you recommend?”

“Only all of it!” Her comment was followed by a laugh, which was followed by a snort. “If you don’t know what to get, I’d say the pancakes. Ooh! Or one of our omlettes. I think Henry says he’s putting mac and cheese and bacon bits in them this morning.”

“Mac and cheese, huh?” _A little weird, but that tracks..._

“Yeah. He likes to experiment. And if people keep eating it, I’ll let him keep making it.” She waved a dismissive hand, making you wonder how many far stranger concoctions this man has cooked up.

“Huh… I think maybe I’ll just go with a couple pancakes this time but -”

“Sure! Come on and have a seat and we’ll get those going for you.” She gestured for you to follow her as she approached the counter. You wanted to protest and go hide yourself away at a booth in the corner, but clearly _someone_ was excited that she had somebody new to talk to. And you were too tired to fight back. So you followed.

“Henry! A stack of pancakes!”

_Wait not a stack! I don’t have that kind of cash! Oh fuck, quit panicking and say something!_

“Oh, uh… Actually,” You were struggling to force the words out. “ I just -”

A voice fired back from the kitchen, “Sure thing!”

“Wait!” You blurted, stopping Lazy Susan in her tracks as she shuffled off to go start another pot of coffee.

“What’s the matter?” 

“I just need one, maybe two,, I don’t need a whole stack.”

“Nonsense! Who only needs one pancake?”

“I mean,” You could feel your face growing hot as you fumbled for an explanation. “I uh… I don’t really have the money for… More…”

Her bright expression quickly shifted to one of raised brows and gentle eyes. “Don’t have the… Aw, hun. I’ll tell you what. We’ll just put those pancakes on the house for you.”

You didn’t want this. You didn’t ask for this. You just wanted to get your breakfast and get out, _not look like a charity case_.

 _That’s all you are_.

“Oh, no, really, it’s fine. You don’t have to-”

“Woah, hold on.” The voice from the kitchen returned as a man poked his head out. The chef - large man, with broad shoulders and dark eyes as gentle as Susan’s, and a mass of dark coiled curls tucked beneath his hat. “Are you _really_ fighting her on free pancakes?”

Wide eyed and stammering, you tried to find a justification. Tried to find _any_ way to describe where you were without babbling on about your anxiety, your depression, your need to be _anywhere_ but home and how that completely fucked you over. Tears began to prick at your eyes as a sheepish laugh forced its way out of your throat.

“I mean… I might be.”

He replied with a chuckle, and turned his attention to Susan. “You know, if she doesn’t want free pancakes… I could always use some help with the dishes.”

You pounding heart froze in your chest. The blood rushing to your face slowed. At his words, things began to grow still. The chef - _Henry?_ \- was throwing you a bone. You were sure of it. 

“I’m not gonna make a…” Susan trailed off as Henry’s gaze lingered on her. One look of dawning realization later, and the two of them had focused back on you. “Well, I suppose that sounds fair. Doesn’t it?”

Your eyelids were still heavy, your bones still longed for rest. But your stomach and wallet were both running on empty. And through some kind of serendipity, you were right where you needed to be.

“Yeah.” You said through a smile. “I’ll help out. No problem.”


	2. The Dancing Shadows

The chilly mornings of Spring were a thing of the past, and the humid summer dawns rolled in.

You were sitting on the porch of your motel room, watching the sun rise over the abandoned mini mart across the street. Your breakfast for the day was road trip provisions – a bottle of water and a granola bar. You already spent all your tip money from the previous day on last night's dinner, and were left scrounging for scraps.

But it was okay, or so you thought to yourself. You at least had a job now. That's more that could be said than when you arrived in the sleepy town of Gravity Falls. That _had_ to count for something.

Sighing, you rubbed your temples.

Sometimes being alive was difficult, and this was feeling like one of those times. It was one of those times when you left home, but your couple weeks on the road had lifted your spirits. Now, they were slowly tumbling down as you were met with the consequences of taking off on your own with no backup plan.

You pulled your attention back to the present – something you were told time and time again you needed to work on. Staying in the moment. Not overthinking. Not getting lost in your own head, as it was so easy to do

As you slipped back into reality, you noticed something. Movement through the window of the ramshackle convenience store across the road. You leaned forward and squinted – as if those couple inches could somehow give you the visibility you needed.

You watched as two figures, obscured by years of dust, moved throughout the front of the store. They seemed to be sharing a dance, just the two of them, bobbing to and fro. Your heart began to race, certain your brain must be playing tricks on you. But still, you watched them twirl, and sway, before finally dancing their way out of sight, deep into the isles of the store.

Your heart raced and your hands shook, but your eyes remained fixed on the window. What you saw was real, that much you were sure of. But what you weren't sure of is what you saw in the first place. Would it be wrong to go over there? Safe to investigate?

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. Your alarm.

It was time to go to work.

The mystery would have to wait.

* * *

“Here you are.” You beamed, placing a “meat lover's bagel” down on the table. The burly man, with a bright copper hair and a bushy beard to match. The lumberjack grunted, and gave you an approving nod. You were almost intimidated by him the first time you met him, but if yesterday was anything to go by he was actually a pretty friendly guy. You just had to get past his big scary forest man demeanor first. “You want a refill on your drink?”

“Mmm.” Another nod, as he took a mouthful of his sandwich.

You reply with a nod of your own, and made your way back behind the counter to where a pot of coffee sat brewing, waiting for this moment. You carried it back out and filled his mug – to the brim, just how he liked it. How he managed to drink it without burning himself was beyond you.

You pondered on it for a second, before the chime of the bell just above the door caught your ear.

You looked up to see who the newest patron was. He was fairly tall, with broad shoulders clad in a black suit. Silver hair could be seen hiding beneath his maroon fez, adorned with an unfamiliar symbol in gold. You didn't recognize him, but clearly Lazy Susan did by the way she poked her head out of the kitchen and cooed, “Hi, Stan!”

“Morning, Sugar.” The man responded, his voice rough as sandpaper. He ambled into the diner, and chose the corner booth furthest from the door.

 _Maybe he's Susan's husband?_ If so, she did well for herself. Though older, you had to admit there was something rather handsome about him. But you just couldn't place it, and staring at him any longer would just make this weird. _Maybe it's already weird. Maybe I should stop staring._

“Mind taking him, (Y/N)? I need to help Henry finish cleaning the stove before all this grease gets out of hand.”

“Sure thing.”

_As if the grease isn't already out of hand._

You headed off to his table menu in hand, to where he was seated staring out the window. “Morning!” You greeted him with a smile, same as every customer. Maybe a little wider – this could be your boss's husband after all, and making a good impression would be everything. You adjusted the hem of your uniform – the retro pink dress Lazy Susan insisted you wear.

“Mornin'.” He greeted you witch raised brows and a crooked grin. “Stan Pines.” He extended a hand, a glimmer in his dark eyes.

 _I'm pretty sure her last name isn't Pines_ , you thought as you took his hand and shook it. _Probably not her husband_.

“(Y/N). Nice to meet you.”

“You too.' A quick squeeze, and his hand returned to his side. “Been too long since we had someone new in town.”

“Man, newcomers really do stick out like a sore thumb around here, don't we?”

“Oh, believe me. Stay here long enough, you'll see it too. You don't have that same uh... Oh, what do I wanna call it...”

“Vibe?”

“No, no.” He batted a hand. “It's like a deadening behind the eyes.”

“ _Oh_.” You chortled despite yourself. “I uh, hadn't noticed that.”

But you had. And he could tell you were lying, if the look on his face was anything to go by. But how couldn't you? Everyone seemed just a few cards short of a deck, and you had no idea why. But it was reassuring to hear it wasn't just you thinking it.

“Sure, Toots.” He chuckled. “Now, down to business.”

“Right.” You held out the menu, and he shook his head.

“Just a black coffee and uh... Give me whatever the hell Henry's making for the specialty omelette today,”

“Before I let you do that to yourself, I need to ask you something.

“Shoot.”

“Are you okay with maple syrup in your omelette?”

“Am I _what?_ ”

“Please don't make me say those words out loud again.”

“You know what? Just give me a couple waffles and some bacon. We'll keep it simple.”

“Coming right up, Mr. Pines.”

* * *

“You talked him out of an omelet?!” Henry pouted. “But that was gonna be my first one all day!”

“There's gonna be others.” You said, leaning against the counter as you waited. The waffles were sitting in the presses, with the timers ticking down.

“I need my work to go to the masses, (Y/N)! Feedback's the only way I'm gonna perfect my art.”

You were fighting a smile. “Sorry, Henry. How about I try and make it sound like I'm hyping them up instead of warning them?”

“Are you still gonna mean it as a warning?”

“I mean, yeah, but if they can't tell does it make a difference?”

“To my feelings, yeah.”

A silence fell between the two of you as you contemplated your options. Just feeding people random omelets seemed unethical, but if they were willing to take the “Specialty Omelet” risk, then perhaps they should just get what they get.

But in the still, another thought floated into your brain. A question that had been lingering for hours.

“Hey, by the way, Can I ask you something? Some Official Gravity Falls History?”

“Ask away.” The timer dinged, and Henry freed the waffles from their searing prisons.

“What's the story with the old Mini Mart? You know, the one across from the hotel?”

“Why, something weird been going on?”

“Yeah, but see, I really don't like how you asked that.” You admitted.

“So there _is_ weird shit happening.” His eyes got wide as he broke out in a toothy grin. “Man, I _told_ Sue that place was haunted!”

“Woah, okay, wait. Haunted?”

“Yeah! See, a couple years back this old couple who owned the place. They were working there, right? And they both dropped dead of heart attacks. Same time!”

Your blood ran cold.

He continued, as if he didn't see the way the color drained from your face, or your eyes pinned themselves open in terror. “It was the freakiest thing. Nobody's ran the shop since. Place fell into disrepair, and now it's that spooky little shack you see today.”

You couldn't find your words – and the few you could caught in your throat like barbed wire.

“Hey, speaking of spooky shacks, don't you gotta get that to Stan?”

You tilted your head. “What does that have to do with spooky shacks?”

“Oh, you don't know who he is? _Shiiit,_ I've got a lot to fill you in on.”


	3. A Shyster's Bargain

The shadows waltzed every morning.

It was only for a fleeting moment, in the hazy minutes where the night met the break of day. They would disappear the way they came - suddenly, and without a trace. They eased in and out of existence, seemingly unaware of where they were going or from where they came. You weren’t sure if they even knew they were dancing, or if this was just a memory playing out before your eyes time and time again. You wanted nothing more than to go and press your face to the dusty glass and _see_. But you worried. You don’t want to scare them off, or worse, get the police called on you for trespassing. It was unlikely the cops would believe your stories about the dancing shadows.

So instead you spent every sleepless morning on the balcony overlooking both the sparsely populated parking lot, and the old Mini Mart across the street. And you waited, and you watched. At first they sent chills through your bones, your skin would crawl, but after a few days that reaction disappeared. Their arrival no longer surprised you.

The same could be said about Stanford Pines, who you quickly discovered was a regular patron of Greasy’s Diner. He came in about every other morning. Oftentimes he’d just get a black cup of coffee. But on some of his more daring mornings he’d get a pancake, or a specialty omelette, or most extravagantly in the week and a half you’d been working there: a slice of pie.

Henry explained who he was to you with bright eyes and a wide smile. He told you about the “Man of Mystery” and his shack out in the spooky part of the woods just outside town. It was an old cabin on a winding dirt road whose only signs of life came in the form of tire tracks in the mud. Inside there were secrets and unspeakable things. At least, those were the claims. Henry seemed in awe of the whole thing, but you were pretty sure what he was describing was a hokey tourist trap that you saw signs for on the edge of the highway as you pulled into town.

You considered stopping in. But you decided that it would be more worth it to spend that money on greasy fast food and try and eat away the melancholy that had settled in your bones.

It hadn’t left.

The bell above the door chimed. You looked up from the old magazine you had found laying around behind the counter. It was just Toby Determined. You weren’t sure if you felt sorry for the man or not. And then you almost felt sorry about not feeling sorry. It was a horrible pity cycle, and you were pretty sure it was the biggest edge this man had in life. He sat on a stool at the counter.

“Good morning, (Y/N).” He tipped his hat to you. You replied with a potentially sarcastic curtsy of your gaudy pink uniform. Thus was the routine since the first day you had met and you had no idea what to say to the hat top. So you thought of the only other somewhat old timey thing you could do in response. You might have hated yourself for it.

“Afternoon, Toby.. Usual today?”

“You know it@” His nasally voice was clear over the murmur of the restaurant. You were well past the lunch rush, and ever farther past the time of day Toby would usually come in at.

You scribbled down his order on a piece of paper from the small notebook in your pocket. “Coffee omelette, small bowl of coffee on the side:.” For dipping, you discovered. It had to be separate from the cup of coffee he ordered, which sort of made sense and was sort of awful at the same time.

You filled the cup of coffee, leaving space for him to add the cream and sugar, which you delivered alongside the mug. He always filled it to the brim with cream, sipped a fair amount out, and then filled it the rest of the way with more cretam. Regardless of how little coffee you put in the cup. Watching him do this again and again might have been driving you insane. Toby was beginning to feel like your own personal pet peeve. 

“You wouldn’t happen to have heard any interesting gossip this morning, hmm?” He pressed a pencil’s eraser into his upper lip, giving himself a snarl.

“Tony, you know even if I did I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

“And why’s that?”

“Top secret confidentiality agreement, obviously..”

He furrowed his brow and leaned closer. You decided he looked like a vulture, but less cute. “I can’t tell if you’re lying.”

You shrugged and grabbed the dish off the window ledge. A small shallow bowl which you filled with black coffee. Then you grabbed the omelette and placed both on the counter in front of him. You took back the cream and sugar, and turned your attention to the magazine. It told of outdated fashions and tips for romance, two things which could not have been farther from your mind. But they served to distract you from Toby, and that was enough for you. 

The bell rang again, and your eyes eagerly shot to the door, looking for an escape from your counter prison. In the entrance was a familiar face in a slick black suit. Behind him were two children, no older than thirteen. They looked weary, likely worn out fro, the road, as you remembered. The other day Stan had mentioned his great-niece and nephew coming up from… _Colorado? California? Yeah that sounds right. California._

_Why would you even remember that?_

_Because I’m trying to be good at my job, and that means knowing my regulars._

And Stan, you decided, was one you wanted to know. He’d occasionally drop little hints that hid crazy stories behind the nonchalance - like prison stints in other countries and being banned from certain states. He never actually told the stories though. He would just drop the comments casually and continue the conversation, leaving you clinging to every word he said. You found yourself hoping he’d slip up and that you’d begin to paint a proper picture of the enigma that was Stan Pines.

But today didn’t seem like it would be that day. He slid into a booth by the train car’s sprawling windows. The kids sat across from him. You grabbed the pen and notebook from the pocket of your apron and walked over to their table. 

”Afternoon, Mr. Pines, and family.” You gave a wave to the kids at the table. The boy lifted his hand and gave a small wave back while the girl enthusiastically greeted you.

“Hi! I’m Mabel!” She gave a smile revealing her braces, with different colored rubber bands on each tooth. No two seemed to match.

“I’m (Y/N). Which means you must be D… Dip… Hold on, I know I’ve got it.”

“Dipper.” The boy replied.

“That’s the one.”

_Nailed it._

“Grunkle Stan told you about us?” Mabel’s eyes lit up.

“Don’t let it get to your head.” Her “Grunkle” replied.

“Grunkle?”

“It’s a portmanteau of ‘great uncle’.” Dipper explained.

“The whole thing is just a mouthful. Like, _blah_.” The girl stuck her tongue out and made a face for emphasis. You couldn’t help but giggle. 

“Speaking of mouthfuls, you guys must be starving, huh? Here.” You placed the unusually sticky menus on the table and tried not to question their coating. “I’ll let you guys look over these for a minute.”

“Remember kids, one item a piece.” Stan said before you turned to leave.

“Aw, but I can’t choose between fries and onion rings. You made them both sound so _good_.” The girl pouted.

“Yeah. Grunkle Stan, you can’t just take us to a good, all-American diner and not get us fries.” Dipper acted as the voice of reason.

You piped up. “Well, hey. You guys have had a long trip up from… California, right?”

“Are you a witch?” Mabel leaned forward with her hands on her cheeks, eyes still alight.

“Maybe. A witch who’s gonna see about getting you guys some cheap fries. If it’s okay with your grunkle.” You turned your attention to the man, who’s silver hair was poking out from beneath his fez.

“What’s the catch?”

“How about a cheap tour of the shack?”

“Oh no. No way.. There’s no discounts at the Mystery Shack.”

“ _Please_ Grunkle Stan?”

“We’re wasting away.” Mabel held her stomach and dramatically face planted onto the table.

“Oh, fine.” Stan turned his attention towards you. “I’ll take off from the ticket whatever you can get off from the fries.”

“ _Deal_.”

* * *

You stepped into the kitchen where Lazy Susan stood over the sink in the large yellow rubber gloves that were always left hanging over the side as a courtesy.

“Hey, Lazy Susan.” You began, leaning against the counter. “So, I have a huge favor to ask of you.”

“Ask away!” She placed a shining plate in the dishwasher. For sterilization more so than getting the food off. She’d done a splendid job of that herself.

“Would you be okay with bumping a couple dollars off some fries for Stan’s great-niece and nephew?” 

“Oooh, they’re finally here?!” She smiled. “I should go say hi!”

“And the fries? I can stay an hour later, free.” Your pay for the hour would be negligible anyway. You made most of your money through tips. Tips which you’d be collecting in that extra hour regardless. It seemed like a fool proof plan to you.

“Oh hun, you don’t have to do that.” She waved a dismissive hand as she often did, though this time she rained a shower of dishwater across the floor.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course! It’s their first day here. I think we should do something nice for them.”

You smiled at her words. “Thanks. That’s exactly what I was thinking. Now, here. Lemme take over dishes so you can go say hi.”

* * *

You returned with a tray of drinks in your hands. 

“Here y’all go.” You placed the drinks down in front of their respective people, one by one. Black coffee for Stan, Pit Cola for Mabel, and a root beer for Dipper. 

“You’re all super nice here.” Mabel said, and you couldn’t help but smile. This girl was a ray of sunshine. “I can’t believe you got us free fries!”

“Yeah, you’re telling me.” Stan replied.

“So that means she gets a free tour, right? Dipper asked, placing his straw pensively between his lips. He chewed on it slightly. 

“It’s three dollars for a basket of fries. You for me three of those. That’s nine dollars off. I’ll give you the tour for a buck.”

You fought the urge to bargain with the old shyster. You figured there would be little use, and no real reason to fight over such little cash. “Deal. A dollar for a tour.”

And while you were there, you figured, you’d take the chance to ask him what he knew about ghosts. What he knew about the secrets of that abandoned mini mart. What he knew about the mysteries of the town of Gravity Falls, Oregon.


End file.
